


Soaked

by hoosierbitch



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Porn, Punishment, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal takes an unnecessary risk during a case, and Peter needs to make sure that he won't do it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soaked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gyzym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/gifts).



> [](http://gyzym.livejournal.com/profile)[**gyzym**](http://gyzym.livejournal.com/) , was [having a bad day ](http://gyzym.livejournal.com/14426.html)and wanted wet!Neal and Peter to have sex by a lake. HUGE THANKS to [](http://photoash.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://photoash.livejournal.com/)**photoash**  for the wonderful beta-ing. Any remaining mistakes are my own!

"Fuck. I'm _soaked_."

"That's what she said."

"Peter, this isn't funny! This isn't my suit!" And Peter knows how sensitive Neal is about Byron's things - how careful he is in the apartment, how grateful he is to June. And he does look sort of pitiful - covered in lake water, a bruise on his cheekbone from the tussle he and the suspect engaged in, an angry pout gracing his lips. His Italian leather shoes squelch on the boardwalk as he walks over.

"It's just water, Neal. Dry-cleaning will take care of it."

The glare Neal gives him implies that perhaps his knowledge of expensive suits is incomplete. "Are you a moron? I have seaweed in my ass."

"Do you want help getting it out?"

"What? Oh, god, you're_ serious_, aren't you?"

"You look sexy. Dripping wet - "

"Probably going to catch a cold."

"The suit clinging to your arms - "

"Gangrene."

"I want to lick you."

"THAT IS NOT AT ALL SANITARY."

 

He grabs Neal's elbow and starts walking away. "Jones - Caffrey needs a minute to collect himself. You got everything under control?" Jones nods and waves him away.

When Peter pulls him into the small bathroom, locks the door, presses him against the wall (rivulets of water down the cement blocks, slow drips down from his eyebrows, over the darkening bruise, his lips) and kisses him Neal doesn't protest. Just gives Peter the small surprised gasp he loves so much - like he still can't believe Peter wants him, wants him in his bed and home and _right now._ Peter kisses him but steps back when Neal tries to press against him. "Careful," he warns, and pulls back. He can't get any water on Peter's clothes. Jones and Cruz are far from stupid - they'll be able to put two and two together and come up with a threesome.

"Don't move." And Neal nods, licking his lips like he can't wait to obey, to prove himself again (to convince Peter with every movement, every kiss, every blowjob and moan and promise) that he's worth the risk.

He leans against the wall and juts his hips out, the dark fabric clinging to his erection. Peter takes off his coat, rolls up his sleeves, and palms it. It's hot even though the rest of Neal is chilled from the fall air - small shivers work their way down his arms, to the tentative fingers he rests on Peter's forearms.

Cold and wet, hair a mess, clothes dirty and clinging to him - his white shirt transparent enough to reveal the dark circles of his nipples, sticking to his stomach close enough that the fabric dips into his navel.

"Unzip your pants." And he does, with clumsy eager fingers, yanking the zipper down like it's done him some wrong. "Don't take your dick out. Don't even touch it. Not yet."

"_Fuck -_ " Neal tries to obey, he really does. But he's never been good at listening. Neal brushes his dick with his fingertips, just a brief caress (Peter watches his cock jump from the slight pressure) before he recovers himself and slaps his hands against the wall.

"You touched yourself." Neal's hair is falling across his face in messy tendrils. Peter brushes it back gently. "I told you not to," he reminds him quietly, and Neal whimpers but doesn't try to talk his way out of it.

If the lake had been any cleaner he would have licked the moisture off Neal's cheeks, tasted the droplets collecting under his lower lip, kissed the beading water from his temples. Instead he pinches Neal's nipples roughly through the wet fabric, twisting them until it can't be pleasurable. Not to anyone but a painslut like Neal, who has to bite his lip to keep from keening, who pushes his chest into Peter's hands until he's digging his fingernails in as hard as he can and every breath Neal takes is one touch away from a sob.

"Sorry," he pleads, thrusting his dick forward to try and rub against Peter's thigh (Peter can see his hipbones, the wet fabric clinging to the inward dip of flesh, teasing towards his groin). "I didn't mean to - "

"I told you to wait for back-up, too." He wishes he could bite the glistening line of Neal's neck. Right under his chin, to lick at the veins and feel Neal's pulse quicken under his teeth. "Didn't I?"

"Yes," Neal says, a wretched admission of his fault.

There are so many things Peter would do to him if he could. He settles on grabbing his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers. He doesn't stroke it, doesn't tease. Just holds it while Neal bites his lips and shakes against him.

"Push your pants further down." And his fingers are quick but clumsy. He doesn't stray towards his cock, but he does try and reach for Peter - a tight squeeze around his shaft stops him mid-gesture. "Hands back against the wall."

When he starts moving his hand, Neal begins to shudder. Like a wave rolling from his lips to his shoulders, through the concave stretch of his stomach, his cock in Peter's hand, more rivulets of water down his ankles and into the pool gathering at his feet.

He doesn't know if it's from cold or arousal. Doesn't particularly care. Just slips his hand into the slit of his boxers, grabs his balls, and barks out a harsh laugh as Neal frantically rubs his dick against Peter's forearm. He knows better than to come without permission. He braces his other hand next to Neal's head and leans in. He doesn't kiss him. Just rolls his balls between his fingers and breathes centimeters away from his lips. "What did you do wrong?"

"What?" He squeezes and Neal moans - tilts his head back against the wall and their lips brush against each other for one warm second. Peter bites at Neal's mouth, pulling back with Neal's lower lip between his teeth before continuing. Neal licks at the indentation Peter left behind.

"You should know why you're being punished."

"Wh - why I'm - "

"Why you're being punished, Neal." He peels Neal's boxers down his trembling thighs and starts jerking him off roughly, the water creating a painful friction. Neal tries to pull away but stops when Peter presses his fingernail into his slit and then drags it down the prominent veins on the underside of his shaft. "What did you do wrong?"

"I went - went after the guy."

"Without any back-up." He crouches to place his other hand between Neal's thighs, teasing two fingers into Neal's hole. His thighs are clammy, but his hole is hot, tight. He rubs his fingers over it, teasing him, stroking along his perenium and back until he presses in to the first knuckle.

"With - without back-up, _please - _"

"He could have killed you."

Neal starts to slide down the wall, his knees weakening, but a quick tug on his ball sack gets him onto his toes. Fuck, but Neal makes a pretty picture. His pants around his knees, jacket falling off his shoulder, his cock a brilliant red against his white shirt. Shivering.

"Say it."

"Fuck me - "

 

Neal's precum starts spilling down his shaft but Peter wipes it off quickly. He doesn't want any lube for this, organic or otherwise. He strokes his dick with cold, rough hands. "No, Neal. Say - say that he could have killed you. He could have had a gun, could have done so much worse than tackling you off the pier - you unnaturally lucky son of a bitch." He squeezes Neal's balls until he wrests a choked groan from behind Neal's clenched teeth.

He loves it when Neal begs. Not with words - he's too good with them, too quick, they're too easy. But when the corners of his eyes crease with pain and he presses against the fingers Peter's slowly teasing into his hole and he digs his fingernails into the wall - this? This is a Neal he knows he can trust.

"He c-c-could have - k-k killed me," and he swears, swears as tears spill from his eyes - he's bent over enough that Peter can lick at them until the salty taste bursts on his tongue, leaving trails of warmth on Neal's chilled flesh. "But I - I got him, for you - " and Peter twists his fingers viciously inside him.

"Shut up," he says, scissoring his fingers out too wide. "You are not _expendable_, do you hear me? If you would just care about your life the same way you do your fucking _suit -_ " And Neal's grabbing at his wrists with freezing hands, in pain from Peter's hands and desperate for some sign that Peter will forgive him. "Your suit belongs to June but _you_ belong to _me_." Neal sobs and bends forward to kiss him, remembering at the last second that he can't - shouldn't - Peter growls at him and he leans back against the wall, closing his eyes. Taking his punishment like a good slut.

He finds Neal's prostate and rubs until Neal's cock is hard, a shade of red so deep it verges on purple. He uses his other hand to press Neal against the wall. His hands scrabble against Peter's chest - but he's not so far gone that he gets Peter wet. Every time his soaked sleeves get too close to Peter he jerks away, digging his fingernails into his own thighs for as long as he can before he has to reach out again. Every time he screws up Peter pushes further inside him. Spreads his fingers farther apart. Whispers against the shell of Neal's ear "you belong to me, you belong to me, Neal - you're _mine_."

He pulls his fingers out and presses them into Neal's mouth. Past his chattering teeth to stroke his eager tongue. "You scared me," he says. Neal tries to respond but Peter interrupts him, pushing his fingers farther inside. "Please. Be quiet." Neal stills and sucks gently on his fingers. He steps closer, resting his forehead against Neal's, leaning his free hand on the wall. "You don't - Jesus, Neal. You can't do that. You can't just run after bad guys and hope for the best."

He knows that if Neal were allowed to talk he'd protest that he hadn't done anything that Peter wouldn't have if their positions were reversed. "You're my partner," he says, and Neal's whole body shivers, he swallows convulsively. "And I want to - want to _punish_ you, for what you did. I want to beat you black and blue and fuck you dry and tie you to my bed and never let you leave - and you'd let me, wouldn't you?" He steps back and takes his fingers out with a slow caress.

"Yes," Neal says quietly and something inside Peter cracks open. Some reserve of adrenaline that's been waiting for that admission, some vestige of fear, some instinctive rebellion against his own helplessness. The memory of Neal going over the edge of the pier.

"Don't do it again," he says, and he meant it as an order but it comes out a whisper. Neal nods and shakes and whines when Peter twines his hands in his wet hair and pushes him to his knees. "Take my dick out and suck it." Neal reaches for him and he pulls at his hair until he sees Neal's eyes water. "Don't use your hands. You're filthy." And Neal whimpers and precum spills out of him - his dick's shining wet. Peter could probably make him come just by telling him to. But he won't, so Neal can't.

Neal's slow. Usually he can get the button out and zipper down in a matter of seconds - but Peter's hands are tight in his hair, his chattering teeth uncooperative. Peter rocks himself against Neal's face as he waits. He can feel Neal's harsh gasps through his slacks, through his boxers. Can feel the cold pressure of his skin, the light kisses he drops as an apology for his speed.

And when he gets Peter's dick out and opens his mouth - resting back on his heels, closing his eyes, waiting - when he lets go and trusts Peter to catch him? Peter's hands start to tremble. He needs to be worthy of Neal's trust. Needs to be able to always have his back. He looks at Neal, submissive and waiting and tries to let that image erase his fear.

Normally, Neal's blowjobs are as artful and complicated and frustrating as the rest of him - all teasing licks and nips and kisses. But here, kneeling on a dirty bathroom floor, he just opens his mouth and lets Peter set the pace. Lets Peter smear precum on his lips, chin, cheekbones - lets him press the head of his dick against the inside of his cheek to see the obscene bulge. Lets him fuck in until he gags, until Peter's in his throat, until tears run down his cheeks again to mix with the precum and lakewater and saliva.

He thrusts in all the way and then pinches Neal's nostrils. Cuts off his air until Neal wraps his hands around Peter's wrists in a painfully tight grasp. Until his chest starts heaving and his shakes get more pronounced and he looks up at Peter (but doesn't look away. Doesn't pull against Peter's hands). Until he can't hold back any longer and he comes, endlessly, spilling down Neal's throat - so deep Neal doesn't have to swallow, so deep he's choking on it. Grateful for it.

When he pulls out Neal collapses on the floor. Curls in on himself, coughing. Peter can see the line of his spine through his suit jacket, watch his ribs expand. It's better than having him naked, he thinks, having him helpless in the clothes he wears like armor. Seeing his body like this (revealed and so absolutely at Peter's mercy) outside of their bedroom brings an uncomfortable rush of blood to his cock which valiantly tried to harden at the sight.

"Sit up." He nudges at Neal's cock with his shoe and Neal moans, clinging to Peter's knee to stay upright. He's dripping on Peter's pants. Too far gone to remember to hold himself back, to hide the evidence, to do anything but work himself desperately towards the orgasm Peter's denying him. He rocks himself against the sole of Peter's shoe and moans.

When Peter steps back Neal falls forward again, still shaking, crying softly, Peter's precum drying on his lips. "Stand." And he does, slowly, shakily. "Zip yourself up." And he does, shuddering at the sensation of his cold, wet boxers on his dripping erection. It's visible through his pants. If anyone looks too closely, they'll know.

He unrolls his sleeves, put his jacket back on, and heads for the door. "I want you to come for me. You can touch yourself through your pants, but don't take them off. And don't clean yourself up afterwards." He looks back to see Neal collapsed against the wall, already thrusting against his palm. "When you're done, come out to the car. I'm going to take you home and make sure you've learned your lesson." Neal's too far gone to even nod - just keeps masturbating, whole body twisting and writhing against his own hand.

When he steps outside he sees that his is the only car left - the others have gone back to the office. He takes some pride in that, how his unit operates like a well-oiled machine. Jones will be ready for his own team, soon.

Alone for the first time, he lets out a shuddering sigh. He crouches down by the door and listens to Neal cry out as he comes. Breathes in the clean, cool air, and bites his fist to muffle a sob. Neal's okay. Peter'll take him home and warm him up and put him to bed. He wasn't hurt - it could have ended badly, but it didn't. _Neal's okay,_ he tells himself, but it's not until Neal walks out and pulls him up, laying a chaste kiss on the back of his neck, that he can relax.


End file.
